security guard noticed the altercation and walked over. “Problem?”
Dark Suit frowned. “No. Everything is fine.”
“My fault,” the fat drunk said, struggling to his feet.
“You two need to come with me,” the guard said firmly.
Seeing Dark Suit reach into his overcoat, Austin prepared to bring out his weapon.
When he saw him pass some identification over to the guard, he loosened his hold on his pistol, but didn’t let go of it completely.
The guard looked shocked by what he saw. “Is this for real?”
“Yes.” Dark Suit smiled, taking back his credentials.
“I’m so sorry for the trouble, Commissioner Poole.” The guard stepped back. “What brings the head of the City of London’s Police Service to The Hippodrome today?”
“Commissioner Poole?” Angelique whispered, her shock mirroring his own. “What kind of trouble are you in, Austin?”
He shrugged, thinking he could ask her the same question.
“Just thought I might try my hand at one of your tables.” The lie came off the commissioner’s lips like silk. “It’s my day off.”
“I thought so. This is outside your jurisdiction, isn’t it?”
“Sure is. I’m happy to let the Met handle the rest of London.”
The fat man smiled; his eyes heavy with drink. “Guard, this gentleman has done nothing wrong,” he said, slurring his words. “I swear.”
“I know he hasn’t, sir.” The guard was visibly irritated with the drunk. “You have.”
“Do you need anything else from me?” The commissioner scanned the casino.
“No, sir. I need to escort this gentleman out.”
“But I would like another drink.”
“Not happening, sir,” the guard said.
Without another word, the man who had followed them from Angelique’s home turned opposite their direction, heading deeper into The Hippodrome.
When the coast was clear, he and Angelique ran back to the arch, past the guard and fat man, and back out onto the street.
A couple was getting out of a black cab. He and Angelique jumped in.
“Where to?” the driver asked.
Angelique brought out her cell. “Coach and Horses Yard. Fast.”
As the driver pulled away, Austin saw the Commissioner step out of the casino talking on his cell. He seemed unaware that they were in the taxi.
CHAPTER 20
10:58 AM
Dr. Thomas Wilson relit his pipe, enjoying the aroma of his favorite tobacco. Being in his home surrounded by his possessions gave him little comfort. Trying to quiet his fears of the current situation, he ran his hand over the arm of his chair, which he’d acquired long ago during a trip to Scotland. The large wingback had spoken to him with its new, dark leather. Now, its fabric had years of wear, like him.
He looked down at the notes he’d been preparing for his interview with the BBC.
“Special delivery for you, Dr. Wilson.” Gita came in carrying a small box.
“It’s likely something for the lab.”
She shook her head. “It’s addressed directly to you, but there’s no return address.”
A shiver ran up and down his spine as he thought about the horrific letter he had received from the killer Monday. It, too, had no return address. “Hand it here.”
Trembling slightly, partially from his disease and partially from his anxiety, he placed the little box on top of his stack of newspapers.
Gita peered over his shoulder. “Do you think it could be from The Ripper?”
“I hope not.” Thankfully, his medications were keeping his Parkinson’s under control. He could not imagine having to ask Gita to open the package. Even with his disease, he had always managed to be independent.
Using his letter opener, he sliced the tape that sealed the box. Inside, sat an envelope and a smaller carton. On the envelope were the words: “A gift for you, Dear Boss.”
He recognized the handwriting. It matched The Ripper’s initial letter to him.
Wilson took a deep drag on his pipe, as the final words of the killer’s first note vibrated silently on his lips.
I
Dark Suit frowned. “No. Everything is fine.”
“My fault,” the fat drunk said, struggling to his feet.
“You two need to come with me,” the guard said firmly.
Seeing Dark Suit reach into his overcoat, Austin prepared to bring out his weapon.
When he saw him pass some identification over to the guard, he loosened his hold on his pistol, but didn’t let go of it completely.
The guard looked shocked by what he saw. “Is this for real?”
“Yes.” Dark Suit smiled, taking back his credentials.
“I’m so sorry for the trouble, Commissioner Poole.” The guard stepped back. “What brings the head of the City of London’s Police Service to The Hippodrome today?”
“Commissioner Poole?” Angelique whispered, her shock mirroring his own. “What kind of trouble are you in, Austin?”
He shrugged, thinking he could ask her the same question.
“Just thought I might try my hand at one of your tables.” The lie came off the commissioner’s lips like silk. “It’s my day off.”
“I thought so. This is outside your jurisdiction, isn’t it?”
“Sure is. I’m happy to let the Met handle the rest of London.”
The fat man smiled; his eyes heavy with drink. “Guard, this gentleman has done nothing wrong,” he said, slurring his words. “I swear.”
“I know he hasn’t, sir.” The guard was visibly irritated with the drunk. “You have.”
“Do you need anything else from me?” The commissioner scanned the casino.
“No, sir. I need to escort this gentleman out.”
“But I would like another drink.”
“Not happening, sir,” the guard said.
Without another word, the man who had followed them from Angelique’s home turned opposite their direction, heading deeper into The Hippodrome.
When the coast was clear, he and Angelique ran back to the arch, past the guard and fat man, and back out onto the street.
A couple was getting out of a black cab. He and Angelique jumped in.
“Where to?” the driver asked.
Angelique brought out her cell. “Coach and Horses Yard. Fast.”
As the driver pulled away, Austin saw the Commissioner step out of the casino talking on his cell. He seemed unaware that they were in the taxi.
CHAPTER 20
10:58 AM
Dr. Thomas Wilson relit his pipe, enjoying the aroma of his favorite tobacco. Being in his home surrounded by his possessions gave him little comfort. Trying to quiet his fears of the current situation, he ran his hand over the arm of his chair, which he’d acquired long ago during a trip to Scotland. The large wingback had spoken to him with its new, dark leather. Now, its fabric had years of wear, like him.
He looked down at the notes he’d been preparing for his interview with the BBC.
“Special delivery for you, Dr. Wilson.” Gita came in carrying a small box.
“It’s likely something for the lab.”
She shook her head. “It’s addressed directly to you, but there’s no return address.”
A shiver ran up and down his spine as he thought about the horrific letter he had received from the killer Monday. It, too, had no return address. “Hand it here.”
Trembling slightly, partially from his disease and partially from his anxiety, he placed the little box on top of his stack of newspapers.
Gita peered over his shoulder. “Do you think it could be from The Ripper?”
“I hope not.” Thankfully, his medications were keeping his Parkinson’s under control. He could not imagine having to ask Gita to open the package. Even with his disease, he had always managed to be independent.
Using his letter opener, he sliced the tape that sealed the box. Inside, sat an envelope and a smaller carton. On the envelope were the words: “A gift for you, Dear Boss.”
He recognized the handwriting. It matched The Ripper’s initial letter to him.
Wilson took a deep drag on his pipe, as the final words of the killer’s first note vibrated silently on his lips.
I
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